


breath finally free

by VegaOfTheLyre



Category: Once Upon a Time (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-20
Updated: 2011-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 07:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VegaOfTheLyre/pseuds/VegaOfTheLyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No net?”</p><p>“Didn’t need it this time,” he says. “I thought I’d find you here.” When her eyes flick up to his he is struck tongue-tied and foolish, and he clears his throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breath finally free

"James, you're mooning again," Thomas says. James looks up from where he is sitting in the window of the library with his feet braced against the far side of the casement, the glass cracked open to let in the evening breeze, and he scowls.

"I don't _moon_ ," he says. "At worst, I'm brooding."

Thomas raises his eyebrows. "Right," he says, kindly not pursuing the subject. "Well. I'm riding to the Duke of Folkestone's this evening for the ball. You were invited too, you know; are you coming, or do I have to drag you there?"

"I don't think so, no," James says. He indicates the book he's reading and smiles half-heartedly. "I have some history to study."

"Oh?" Thomas—who, as dearly as James loves him, rarely picks up a book for pleasure or profit—looks skeptical, but he nods to the book, at least pretending to be interested. "What are you reading, then?"

"The Chronicles of the Realm," James says, letting Thomas see the embossed cover, keeping his finger conveniently covering the years the volume spans. He lets the pages fall open to charts of crop yields, and when Thomas sees it, his face is pained.

"Listen, my friend," he says, clapping a hand to James's shoulder and shaking him a little. "I know things have not been the easiest in your lands, lately, but shutting yourself up in your tower, burning your eyes out with figures—that won't solve anything. Go for a ride. Kill something. Come dance with some pretty ladies."

"I'm not," James says mildly, "shutting myself up in a tower. But you should go find yourself that elusive princess your father is so worried you should marry, and leave my troubles to me. All right?"

"No," Thomas says.

James sighs. "If I get out to go hunting tomorrow, will you be satisfied?"

"Only if you send your spoils along to me," Thomas says. "But it's a start."

"Very magnanimous, your highness," James says.

Thomas's expression turns calculating. "Speaking of women," he says, "what of—"

"Thomas," James says warningly, and Thomas flings his hands up in defense and backs, laughing, out of the library.

James listens for a long moment, till he is sure his friend is gone, and turns back to the page he'd really been reading before Thomas had come in: the account of the birth and christening of the cherished baby girl called Snow White, born to the king of a nearby state. He runs his hand over the crabbed letters of the scribe recounting the death of the queen, her mother, and the king's subsequent grief, fingers lingering on the wishes of the queen before the baby's birth: skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as ebony. It is a weighty legacy for any child to bear, and he is grateful that his own fairy godmothers bestowed on him no more than the uninspiring but safe gifts of steady temperament and good humour. They've served him well thus far, but to look at what's become of Snow White—

The window clatters open wider, the wind suddenly turning icy. Thoughtfully, James looks out over the forest, and thinks that he might go for that ride tomorrow after all.

 

* * *

 

The season has turned. It hasn't started to snow yet, but it's briskly cold and James's fingers are chilled even through his thick gauntlets. He transfers the reins to one hand and pulls the collar of his cloak closer to his throat as he risks a glance upwards: there are heavy grey clouds looming above. He's been riding for two hours, and the woods are still and silent. He thinks longingly of the warm fireplace awaiting him in his rooms, and then he thinks of Snow White, on the run and alone with the winter coming on, and he thinks of the reports that his knights have given him, the news that the queen her stepmother has been doubling the presence of her soldiers on the highway in her efforts to hunt the girl down.

He wishes she had taken the rest of the jewels, like he'd offered.

Distracted, it takes a moment for him to hear the rustling in the trees above him. He pauses and pulls his horse up to listen; the sound stops short, and then a figure abruptly swings down from a high branch over his head and lands in a crouch on the road before him. His horse is well-behaved enough to not to do more than toss her head and shy one or two steps, and James, who has been half-expecting this, quiets her deftly.

The figure stands and pulls back her hood. It's Snow White, of course; she smiles up at James impishly. "Prince Charming," she says. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks pink with cold. "I didn't expect to see you around travelling this road again, after you were so _rudely_ ambushed by a pack of ruffians on your way to meet your beloved's family. Or isn't that the story that's going around?"

James smiles down at her. "It wasn't me who started it," he says.

"No, I didn't guess it was," Snow says drily. "No net?"

"Didn't need it this time," he says. "I thought I'd find you here." When her eyes flick up to his he is struck tongue-tied and foolish, and he clears his throat.

He dismounts and leads his horse by the head, walking alongside Snow White. She is busy pulling her hair out of the hood of her cloak, a new one, not the green weather-stained thing he'd first seen her wearing but something much warmer and lined with fur. He is glad for that, at least. He looks at her sideways, and asks, "How did you know to find me, then?"

"Oh, I have ways and means—I told you I know this forest well," she says. A late flock of birds takes off from the trees above them, and she smiles a little to herself before glancing up at him curiously. "So why are you are here really, then?"

"I thought it was a good morning for a hunt," James says, though it patently isn't. He even has his bow and quiver strapped in with his saddlebags if he's called to prove it; his horse whickers and nudges his shoulder, as if to give away the lie.

"You haven't heard?" Snow White's eyes are dark, fixed on the road before them. He watches her as she says, "The Queen and her men have managed to drive most of the woodland creatures from these parts. Did you know she burned down a huge swathe of forest a few miles from here, just because someone was said to have spotted me there? It's a wasteland, now. Not even the crows will stop there." She shakes her head, face tight with fury. "She's stripping this land of its living soul, and it's all to get at me."

James waits for several beats to pass and then says gently, "You told me, before, that you were going to get as far away as possible as soon as you had the means."

"I know," she says. Her eyes are sad. "That's what I thought. But I now think I have to see this through."

"And are you happy?" he asks. "With this life you're living?"

She screws up her face, thinking, and says at last, "I'm surviving." Her voice is simple, matter-of-fact. "And I have a purpose now that I never did before. For now, I think that's enough."

He nods, twining the leads once more around his hand in silence.

"And you; are you happy with the—" _Nag with the bad attitude_ , she doesn't finish with, instead biting her tongue and saying, "Your wife?"

James hesitates, running his free hand down his horse's neck affectionately, and says at last, "That... hasn't happened, I'm afraid."

Snow's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh?" she says. Her voice is very innocent, and James thinks of his mother's ring on her finger and the woman he had been about to give it to. Snow looks like she wants to mock him, but instead she just says, "Can't imagine why not."

He shoots her a look. She very demurely grins down at the road, then swallows her amusement and says, more seriously, "And the trouble between your kingdoms?"

He grimaces. "Is temporarily on hold, for the moment," he says. "No one wants to destabilise the region any further, not when everyone's so worried about your stepmother."

"Good Lord, then she's good for something," Snow says, so quietly James can barely hear it, but he laughs with surprise, his shoulder bumping into hers as they walk side-by-side:

"Why, Snow White," James teases. "I didn't know you cared."

"Oh, don't get me wrong," she says hastily, "I don't. It's no business of mine. But I don't like to see anyone throw their life and happiness away—"

"The cynic reformed?" James says. "And here I thought true love didn't exist."

She opens her mouth to reply but James's horse suddenly whinnies frantically, rearing back on her hind legs when an arrow skitters to the road before them, just out of range. James and Snow snap to attention, Snow's arm rising protectively to block James's chest. One of the Queen's soldiers is hiding round the bend in the road just ahead of them; he can see the distinctive black armour from here.

"Snow, get out of here," James says, immediately tugging his horse around to mount. He drags his sword out of its scabbard before he swings himself up in the saddle, but Snow is busy rummaging in his saddlebags, drawing out his bow and dropping the quiverful of arrows to the road as she dances back out of the way.

"Go!" she says, notching an arrow and lifting the bow. James twirls his sword once in hand, but as he wheels his horse around to make for the Queen's man his blood freezes. He doesn't see the arrow but he sees the arm drawing back to let it fly and on instinct James throws himself backwards, rolling out of his saddle and over his horse's haunches. He means to drop down neatly on the road, but he miscalculates, and manages to tumble headlong into the ditch.

He lands badly. Feeling as though he's been kicked in the chest, James lays back, dizzy and winded, in the cold dead grass. His neck stings, and he slaps a hand to it; his gloved fingers comes away wet with blood. Just a graze, he thinks, though his dignity's taken a more significant blow. And then he thinks, _Snow_ , and his sickened heart slips a beat, and while he's still fighting for breath he pushes himself up to get back into the fray.

He doesn't get the chance. He catches a brief glimpse of Snow White standing in the middle of the road, her feet planted firmly, mouth a white line, body as taut as the bowstring she is pulling back, and then she lets the arrow loose, and somewhere in the distance, a man shouts in surprise and falls in a clatter of mail. There is no more noise, after that; he is down for good.

Snow's shoulders slump and she bows her head, briefly, with relief.

James must have unwittingly made a noise, because her head immediately snaps over in his direction. "James!" she cries, eyes wide. She tosses her bow aside, and James, still trying to get himself upright, is bowled over again when she skids to her knees and falls into him and knocks them both back into the ditch.

James's shoulders slam into the dirt and grass once more, and he groans. He thinks she might've cracked one of his ribs. Her full weight is pressed into him, and it _hurts_ , but as he blinks up at her concerned face, framed against the sky and leaves beyond, he can't bring himself to protest. There is a piece of dead fern caught in the dark cloud of her hair; he reaches up to pluck it away, fingers lingering, just a moment, near her cheek.

"You're okay," she says. He can feel her heart hammering against his chest. "You are okay, aren't you?"

"I _was_ ," he says, but he smiles to reassure her. Her eyes are still wide but her pulse is slowing, and her face is unreadable and open at once. "Was he alone?"

"As far as I could tell," Snow says. "You're bleeding. Again." Her fingers are curled into the collar of his jacket, but she lifts one bare hand to brush at the blood on his neck.

"It's just a scratch. Doesn't hurt a bit." He doesn't know what he's saying. His eyes are fixed on her as she looks at the reddened tips of her fingers and then looks at his face, and then she touches his chin, very gently, running her thumb along the scar she'd given him when they'd first met. It has healed to a neat pink line already, and James reaches up to take her hand, his own heart hammering against his bruised ribs.

"Well, damn," Snow says, flexing her fingers in his. He knows she isn't talking about the graze on his neck when she adds in a whisper, voice unsteady with laughter, "I'd really meant it to, you know."

"I noticed," he whispers back. Her smile is impossibly wide, and he, grinning with her, lifts his head to kiss her, body rising into hers.

Something wet brushes his cheeks. After a moment James opens his eyes and looks up: it has begun to snow, fat lazy flakes drifting down through the bare trees. Snow pulls back a little, her breath warm over his mouth, eyes half-lidded. She is still smiling.

"You should go," she says softly. "Before you get caught in the storm. You don't need to be tangled up in my messes."

 _But I want to be_ , is caught under his tongue. _Why else do you think I'm here?_

For a long moment neither of them move. White snowflakes have begun to catch in her black curls, and James lifts his hand to her hair to smooth them away. His mother's ring is tucked away in a pocket in the breast of his coat; he wonders if she can feel it. "That soldier was probably a scout," he tells her. "You'll want to get off the road, before the rest of his men catch up."

She makes a dismissive noise as she rolls away to sit up. "Idiots," she says. He stands, brushing down his cloak, and pulls her to her feet. He doesn't let go of her hands for a moment, and Snow is the one to carefully extricate her hands from his, to pull the hood back over her head. Her lips curve a little and she says, "Go home, Prince Charming. You'll always find me, remember?"

"Always," he says. She reaches up once more to smooth her fingertips along the scar on his chin, and he turns his cheek into her hand, something kindling hot in his chest.

Snow drops her hand and leaves wordlessly, ducking through the trees with easy grace. James watches her, the ring in his coat burning like a brand over his heart, and then he climbs back to the road to begin the journey homewards. He doesn't look back or try to trace her route through the woods; he will find her, when he needs to.


End file.
